Blank Slate
by Midnight Caller
Summary: Part 1: Pre & post ep - Blood Lust/High & Low
1. Default Chapter

Blank Slate - Part 1  
  
By Midnight Caller  
  
Spoilers: Up through 'Recipe for Murder' (season 3)  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Summary: Sort of a Blood Lust/High and Low pre and post-ep. Since we're being jerked around so much lately, I tried to figure out why.   
  
Notes: Special thanks to Eolivet, Nutmeg, Devanie, and Andi - you guys should go on tour as the rockingest rock group ever to rock. Because you do.  
  
  
  
  
*****  
  
The tragedy of life is what dies inside a man while he lives.  
  
– Albert Einstein  
  
*****  
  
  
  
  
  
A date.   
  
Is it a date? It's just a dinner. A dinner...date. If anyone asks where you are, you can say 'I was on a date.' See? Doesn't it feel good to say that? Doesn't it feel good to know you're ... socializing? Doesn't it feel good to lie to yourself about who you'd really like to be meeting tonight?  
  
Well, it's been long enough. A date it is.   
  
Your hand smooths over the leather one more time, then once through your hair, and the door shuts with an audible click.   
  
  
  
The restaurant's façade is deceptive. On the outside, merely dark brick and a simple green canopy with the name "La Mer" in cursive. The Sea. Wide, vast, overwhelming, powerful, incomprehensible. Kind of sounds a lot like you. Actually, it sounds a lot like her, doesn't it. The one you're not meeting, not eating dinner with here at The Sea.   
  
The inside is dimly lit, mostly with candles, and the walls are painted a deep, dark red, giving the room an automatic yet indescribable ambience. Comfortable, maybe. Warm. Sara would like it here.  
  
Before you can finish that thought, someone catches your eye. Not Sara, of course, though you were hoping somehow it would magically happen. For now, though, that's all it is – a fleeting wish.   
  
She looks as fetching as the last time you saw her, thankfully dressed in even less leather than you at this moment. A long, black, slim-fitting dress suits her just fine. She smiles. You smile. It's an automatic response, but you know she'd see right through that so you make it count.   
  
"Gil... good to see you." She doesn't move toward you, but extends her hand, palm down. You know you're probably supposed to kiss it, but you don't. Instead, you hold her hand with yours, and give it a gentle squeeze.   
  
"Good evening, Lady Heather." The words sound strange coming from you, but this is what socializing is like, so get used to it.   
  
You take your seat across from her, and open your menu. Her staring at you is unnerving. Make some small talk.   
  
"I'm uh... sorry I'm a little late."  
  
"Problems at work?"  
  
"No, not really. Sara and I were testing a hypothesis on some blood splatter for an old case. She has a seminar tomorrow and wanted to bring it up in conjunction with some anthropological theories, so I... lost track of time."  
  
Her eyes shift, only slightly. She licks her lips. "Oh that's quite all right. I just had myself a drink." She sits back into the booth, and sips from her glass. There she goes again, staring at you. She should know you don't do small talk. As much as you usually enjoy silence, it's killing you right now. Say something. Anything. Just... fill the void.  
  
"This seminar she's attending, it's sort of required for a continuing education addendum we have at CSI, a program that assures our employees will be able to update themselves on new techniques, forensic tools, and the like. The one she's going to is for Forensic Anthropology, which, besides entomology, is one of my favorite areas of study."  
  
She takes another sip, nodding. Her eyes never move from yours. She's good at this. You've never talked this much in your life; you're not sure you like it.   
  
"We had a case a few months ago involving a fairly famous celebrity..."  
  
"The Tom Haviland case."  
  
That throws you. How does she manage to do that?  
  
"I read up on it in the paper. I saw your name as well." She lowers her eyes. You look at the menu.   
  
"It was just a ... tough case for everyone. My mentor ended up being the forensic specialist for the defense and he..." Don't tell her everything. Don't. Even though it's killing you to keep it all in.   
  
"Yes...?"   
  
You bite your lip. "He just stirred up a lot of things he shouldn't have, just to have some sort of twisted personal triumph over us. I just... I felt betrayed. It didn't make sense."   
  
'Relationship.' That didn't make much sense to you, either.   
  
"And your colleagues? How did they respond?"  
  
You take a deep breath. The candles aren't scented, but you're pretty sure Lady Heather is as the particles of perfume float up into your nose.   
  
"At one point he tried to discredit our case by claiming Sara moved evidence at a scene."   
  
"Did she?"  
  
"No. H... a paramedic did. It got cleared up, but the way it was brought up it just... it just threw me."   
  
Okay. Now stop. Stop talking to her. Letting her on to all your little secrets. Just stop it.   
  
She takes three more sips before putting down the glass. "Gil." You look up from your menu. "Who's Sara?"   
  
Swallowing is suddenly extremely difficult. You can feel the heat spreading from your neck up to your ears and cheeks.   
  
Lick your lips again. They're dry. "She's..." Maybe clearing your throat will help. "On my CSI team."  
  
The Lady across from you sits forward, leaning her elbows on the table, on either side of the plate. "Is she anything else?"  
  
"Wh..what?" You don't want to look at her, but suddenly, you can't do anything else.   
  
"It's just that you've mentioned her three times in the last five minutes. I can only assume she's of more importance to you than just another member of your team." She pauses, looks at you. "Am I wrong?"   
  
Before your mouth can reveal what your entire body already has, the waiter arrives. Lady Heather politely orders Chilean Sea Bass, a house specialty.   
  
They both gaze over to you, and your eyes fall to the menu, scanning, scanning, searching for some familiar dish. Nothing comes to you; it's just a jumble of words and letters, not forming sentences or phrases, just nonsense. "I'm sorry... I... I don't know what I want." You hate being flustered, don't you? You bring it upon yourself, I hope you realize.   
  
The waiter turns to leave, but she stops him. "If you don't mind, Gil, I can suggest you order the roasted duck. It's delicious."   
  
"That'd be fine." You smile awkwardly at the server, and he leaves your table.   
  
"Your never answered my question."   
  
Damn.  
  
No menu to hide behind this time.   
  
Look at her. Do it. Tell somebody something for once. Just honestly and openly, even though the thought of doing so is gripping your throat so tightly you can barely catch your breath.   
  
"She's on my CSI team."  
  
Her eyes narrow, and this time it's she who inhales deeply.   
  
"It scares you."   
  
"What?"  
  
"Everything."   
  
You stare her down. You know she's right. "That's not true."   
  
"Then tell me, who is Sara? Who is she to you?"  
  
Your tongue finds your lips again, spreading much-needed moisture over their cracked surface. "She's a friend."  
  
Lady Heather smiles. "Well, that's a start."  
  
"That's it. Look, I'm here with you, in this very nice restaurant, and I haven't even asked you how you—"  
  
"Gil, I already know all about me. I want to know about you."  
  
Her eyes let you know she won't let you out of this.   
  
"She's... a good friend. A very good friend."   
  
She picks up her glass again, tilting it up and letting the red ooze slide down the crystal into her mouth. "Would you like her to be more than that?"   
  
"She's seeing someone else." You try and keep your mouth from falling down at the edges.   
  
"And that upsets you."  
  
Now she's starting to make you angry. You can feel it started to spread across your body as the muscles in your neck start to tense, followed by the tendons across your chest and in your arms. You hold back the strong urge to grip your glass so hard it breaks, and the shards dig into your skin, making you bleed, making you feel ... something, anything at all. The molars in your mouth grind together, hard, and she must be able to see your jaw flexing. It's just a simple question, and you can't even answer it honestly. Lying is making you feel this way. You know this. As a scientist, it should be clear as day. As a human, it's more confusing and frustrating than you could have ever imagined.   
  
Just as you reach for your glass, more than ready to crush it in your palm and show her just how unfit and unstable a person you are, you feel a vibration on your belt. The sigh you let out hopefully sounds like disappointment, but it's out of relief. At this point, any crime scene is less suffocating than where you are right now.   
  
Holding the tiny piece of plastic in your hand, you put on your best regretful face. "I'm very sorry, but—"  
  
"You have to go."   
  
"Yes."  
  
You meet her eyes, finally. She knows. But she won't hold you. She should, but she won't.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Your case feels especially heavy tonight as you drag it alongside your tired body on your way to the scene. Glancing around, you hope to see her, walking with her own case, ready to theorize and postulate and grant you one of those smiles you know she only gives to you. Sara won't be here, though – she's got that seminar tomorrow, early. She's probably sleeping, or watching a video. Most likely not alone, either. Just let it go. Let her go.   
  
You frown as you realize the impossible nature of your own request.   
  
Brass greets you, finally. "Where's your posse?"  
  
You're in crime scene mode now. Awake. Aware only of the evidence waiting to be found. "I don't have any idea. I was actually on a date." Yeah, you let him think you're happy about it, even though you're pretty sure your face isn't being all that convincing.   
  
He seems surprised, but lets it go, leading you to a covered body on the ground. As he begins to explain what happened, your mind disobeys your attempts to suppress free thought, and starts to wander. This crime is not simple. The body is not simple, and neither is what happened to the man who supposedly killed this corpse lying on the pavement in front of you. It's never simple, ever, but it seems even more complicated without her here to steady your nerves, even though her presence coaxes sweat from your pores and flutters the normally steady beat of your heart. She calms you in another way altogether, one which you don't fully understand until she isn't near you. As a scientist, you understand physical reactions to certain other people: pheromones, brain chemistry, ancient reproductive rituals and behaviors. As a human, you don't understand anything but the simple fact that you miss her being here with you.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
You look up just in time to see the car approach. There goes the fluttering in your chest; it must be her. She steps out of the truck, trying to suppress a smile. You encouraged her to go to this seminar, you even helped her prepare an experiment and hypothesis, and yet, you called her away from it mere hours before she was to go.   
  
"You know I had that seminar today, forensic anthropology... part of a continuing education program..."  
  
Suddenly, the urge to make her believe you don't need her is overwhelming, and the words come out before you can stop them.   
  
"Oh, I'm sorry, it seems that everyone has something to do today." Her smile fades, but only for a moment. She knows you better than you think, and you're grateful for her ability for forgive your inability to allow her to love you. "I have no crime scene, or ID, and no witnesses." She deserves more than that. "I need you." The phrase almost seems to dance out over your tongue, and the smile she gives you more than makes up for the difficult journey you took to get to this point.   
  
"How can I help?"   
  
You lift the tape for her as she steps under it, shooting you another smile. Maybe she isn't seeing that guy after all.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"You could have waited for me, you know..."  
  
Glancing up from the microscope you automatically scan her form as you've done over the past two years. You've become quite skilled at quickly taking her in before she notices what you're really doing; drinking in her body language, her clothing, her hair, the way her legs carry her slender form around the world from which you chose to hide most of the time.   
  
"Come take a look at this..."  
  
Oh, you're getting brazen, aren't you, barely moving to the side as she dips her head to gaze into the scope. You take the opportunity to take her in again at a closer range: the smoothness of her hair, the way the shafts seem to shimmer when she moves in just the right light; how her eyelashes extend out from her skin, gracefully curving up toward the ceiling; how the hue of her skin is akin to some kind of creamy white, even as it flows over her cheeks and neck. Somehow you manage to continue talking with her. You really have gotten good, haven't you, gotten good at not acting on anything you're feeling, ever. Doesn't it feel good?   
  
Her lecture on probability of DNA recovery provides another chance for you to stare at her without question. But this time you notice something in her eyes as well, as if she is perhaps doing the same secret analysis in her own head, cataloging your eyes and mouth, and the curls of your hair.   
  
"Do you... want a copy?" She raises an eyebrow.  
  
Maybe she's isn't seeing that guy after all.  
  
"I don't need one. I have you."   
  
You leave before the blush can give you away, and you hope she'll take your cue and move forward, because you certainly aren't having any luck with doing so.   
  
Halfway down the hall, the muffled nightmare returns, and you duck into your office just in time, allowing the sounds to return, slowly, until you're ready to deceive the world once again.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The waiting room is empty today; usually there are at least five or six people sitting and waiting, like you, hoping that their lives will be bettered by a kind word and a semi-positive diagnosis. Or maybe that's just you.   
  
You almost got caught today, you know. Nick almost found out – on a case, no less. Real nice, real smooth. Very professional. Wait until Sara is there with you one day, and you don't hear the intruder, don't hear the footsteps, don't hear anything except, "I'm sorry, Mr. Grissom, there's nothing more we could do for her."   
  
Before your blood pressure can escalate further at the thought of that scenario, a nurse sticks her head out into the room and calls your name.   
  
This will be your third test in a little over a month. You think by now you'd have memorized the tones and their intervals, but maybe it's best that you don't. You're already lying to enough people; no need to include yourself in that grouping.   
  
You haven't memorized the test, but you know you're missing some of the notes; the pauses in-between are too long. But you can't simply raise your finger at random intervals - that would only give you away. So you sit there in that chair, staring at the wall, straining to hear something so you can lift your finger and reassure yourself that your worst nightmare isn't quickly becoming a reality.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Why is it that the internet, with all its advancements in world-wide communications, technology, and vast arrays of special interest groups, still never let's you find what you're really looking for? So far today you've found exactly 642,000 sites on "hearing disorders," 9,019 on "otosclerosis," and yet you haven't come any closer to deciding how to proceed with the next few weeks of your life. Oh, be realistic - try the next five minutes. At any second, you could be discovered, and then reprimanded, then banished to your cave of a townhouse, to live out the rest of your silenced days watching close-captioned Discovery Channel specials and drinking single-malt Scotch. And that whole time, you'd know that it all would have been fine if you just hadn't been so afraid of everything.   
  
You close your eyes at the thought, and take a deep breath. Your own mother went through this. She raised you. Gave you love, support, everything you needed. This is not the end of the world; simply the beginning of another one.   
  
Right?  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"Hey."  
  
You turn to see her standing in the doorway, smiling. For some reason all you do is stare at her.   
  
After a moment, she saunters in and sits next to you at the table, trying to read your crossword over your shoulder. All you can muster is a small, awkward smile.   
  
When you don't answer, she bumps your shoulder with her own. "Everything okay?" she asks quietly.   
  
You meet her eyes.   
  
No.   
  
No, not everything is alright. You're losing your hearing. In less than a year you might be completely deaf. Catherine thinks you're losing your ability to lead this team, and she may be right. And Sara is dating another man. They go to movies. Dinner. To her apartment, you're sure. She's nice to you – she smiles, touches your arm, bumps against your body, and sends signals to you through her eyes. But she's dating that other guy. You were so close. So close.   
  
So, no. Not everything is okay.   
  
"I'm fine."   
  
She stares for a moment, prying her way into your pupils. You can almost feel her peeking her head in and seeing the emptiness, the great cavity of loneliness.   
  
Eventually, she looks away. How can you expect her to want to gaze into a depressing abyss like that and wait until you discover her, eager and waiting, ready to love you at a moment's notice?   
  
"I uh... wanted to ask you if I could have more overtime this week. I can't seem to get a field assignment..."  
  
You knew she didn't come in here to talk about you. She gave up on you a long time ago, and perhaps rightfully so. You've never been one for really going after what you really, desperately wanted, because what would you do when you got it? Surely you don't stack up against this other fellow. He knows Warrick, but he didn't even know who you were. Why on earth would she mention you to him? Because you told her she was beautiful, that she brings order to the chaos you call a life? Because you love her but refuse to tell her?   
  
"Grissom."  
  
Suddenly, you're more afraid than you've ever been in your whole life. Afraid your hearing will go out. Afraid that you will let down your team. Afraid that your chances of ever getting her to love you are vanishing like the air rapidly escaping from your lungs. Just get away from here, quickly.   
  
"I have to go."  
  
She frowns and stands when you do, following you out into the hall. "Hey–"  
  
You can hear the muffled soundtrack of your demise approaching fast. Get out of here, NOW.   
  
  
  
"Hey!"  
  
She's faster than you thought, catching up with you in the parking lot. You frantically search your pockets for your keys. You must get somewhere, alone, right now. Lock yourself in, lock the world out. Right now. Hurry up!  
  
She grabs your arm. "Grissom!" She's never raised her voice like this before. Finally, you can't hold on any more, and meet her stare.   
  
"What is wrong with you?"   
  
You've never seen her this confused before. It breaks your heart not being able to answer truthfully. She must be able to see the strain in your face, the heartache in your eyes.   
  
But you can't tell her now - you can't. Then she would pity you. Even if she was mad you hadn't told her until now, she'd only feel sorry for you. She'd touch your head, slide her hands across your back, tell you everything was going to be okay. Maybe it would be out of love, but you'd welcome the embrace no matter what. You want it now, but it can't happen. Because if she ever fell out of love with you, she'd leave forever, taking away your secrets and every single piece of your heart.  
  
"I have to go."   
  
You're able to break away from her eyes, and step into the car.   
  
Right before you shut the door, you swear she looks at you, and in that single, solitary moment, knows everything you couldn't tell her.   
  
You pray you're right.   
  
  
  
  
(Tbc...) 


	2. Chapter 2 Sara

Blank Slate - Chapter 2  
By Midnight Caller  
  
Spoilers: High & Low, possibly Recipe for Murder  
  
  
Usual disclaimers apply: Don't own 'em.  
  
  
*****  
  
  
Chapter 2  
  
  
  
  
  
Standing there in the parking lot, you're suddenly blind-sided by the most merciless of all human emotions; unreciprocated love.   
  
If he really loved you, if he really wanted to share his world, his being, his life with you, he would have looked you in the eye and told you what was going on. But he didn't. And he won't. And now you know.   
  
As you watch his truck pull further and further away, you can feel your grip on him slipping away, being swept up like a tiny feather in the center of a ferocious tornado.   
  
You don't even realize you're standing in the middle of the asphalt lot until someone honks their horn, and you move slowly out of the way.   
  
Still in somewhat of a daze, you make your way back to the doors, and push them open, slowly and methodically, like you might do if you knew it was to be your last movement, and you wanted to cherish every part of it.   
  
Your pace increases as you make your way down the halls, past the drones of people, past the conversation and smiling, happy faces, and then you see his door ahead. Your pace quickens. Your heart races. But it's not out of excitement - it's something else. Anxiety, maybe, stemming from the realization that you've just lost the one person who truly, honestly meant more to you than you really understood, until they turned their back and walked out of your life.   
  
Thankfully, your feet carry you past his office, allowing you only the quickest of glances at the name on the door. Don't look; it'll only make it worse. You're shaking now, almost, shoving your hands in your pockets to steady them. Somehow you make it to the breakroom, and begin pacing around the center table. Staring at the floor, the tiles spiraling past your field of vision, you feel as though you're at the center of a suffocating vortex, with no way to escape.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"Hey!" You try your best grin, considering you don't think you'll ever be able to smile again and mean it. The hands in your back pocket grip the material of your pants. At least try not to look like the mental wreck you are.   
  
Catherine glances back at you, a large branch sitting on the table in front of her. You don't even really know why you're here. Maybe because you trust her, maybe because she doesn't skirt issues, maybe because she knows a little something about love, or maybe because she knows Grissom better than anyone, even you.   
  
But, you're unable to make your brain get over your previous conversation. "I'm maxed out on overtime. I can't seem to get out into the field."  
  
She's too busy to deal with you right now. Of course, if you were to be honest...   
  
"You'll have to talk to Grissom about that..."  
  
Despite the pain that shoots through your chest at the mere mention of his name, you know that's why you came in here - to talk about him. But how to tell her, without sounding like your heart has been shattered into a million unrecoverable pieces...  
  
"Yeah, he's not really in a... talking mood..."  
  
What is that look she gives you? Does she know? Can she see the pain in your eyes?  
  
"Sara... it's normal hours. Why don't you go to dinner with the boyfriend..." She looks right at you. "Hank, right? Go to a spa..."  
  
She knows. She must know. And now she's trying to get it out of you.   
  
Why are you smirking? Stop acting like a giddy 13 year-old with her first crush. Hank is not your boyfriend. "Hank is not my boyfriend." You could continue. You could tell her how you like him, how you enjoy his company, his friendship, the way he looks at you when he thinks you're not paying attention, but you don't say a word. Because as much fun as Hank can be, something in the back of your brain just won't let you forget that your heart has promised itself to someone else.   
  
But you can't tell anyone that. Not Catherine. Not Hank.   
  
Not Grissom.   
  
And therein lies the problem.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
You thought you liked being alone. Not just in relation to your personal life, either. Just being able to relax, at home, by yourself, without anyone there to bother or distract you – that used to be the goal at the end of the day. But now, as you stare at the emptiness that is your apartment, the quiet and stillness slowly but surely eating away at your patience and nerves, it suddenly occurs to you that this is what loneliness must be. This is what it feels like to long so badly for someone that even your mundane daily routine is thrown askew, and all you can do is stand back and helplessly watch your life come apart right before your eyes.  
  
Like a panic, the quiet hiss of the empty room soon becomes unbearable, and you rise from your perch on a stool, and begin to pace. You don't pace. You don't bite your nails, either, but you're doing that, too. What is happening to you? Why can't you just let him go, for God's sake? He's tearing you apart, and this pacing and nail-biting is just the start. Soon, he'll start invading your waking hours as well as your non-waking ones, popping up in the linen closet, or in the shower, or when you first wake up and you look like a living, breathing, emotionally-deficient disaster who hasn't slept a full night's sleep in over nine years.   
  
Okay. That's it, that's it. You pick up the phone. The numbers come easily - even the tone they make on the keypad is somewhat pleasing to the ear. But when the other end starts to ring, you freeze. What the hell will you say? 'Help me, I'm going insane? I've started to bite my already short nails and I'm thinking of cataloging and alphabetizing my 368 CDs by artist, genre, album, and date of release'?   
  
When he finally answers, your mouth suddenly finds some more socially appropriate words.   
  
"Hank, it's me..."   
  
  
  
(tbc...) 


End file.
